


Sulfur and Scars

by overused_underrated



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Tragedy, Body Horror, Branding, Corporal Punishment, Crowley Was Not Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), DUCKS!, Heavy Angst, Hell, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt Raphael, M/M, Maggot Husbands (Good Omens), Mentioned Beelzebub (Good Omens), Minor Hastur/Ligur (Good Omens), Mutilation, Nonbinary Beelzebub (Good Omens), Nonbinary Character, Post-Scene: Paris 1793 (Good Omens), Punishment, Scars, Scene: Crowley's Trial in Hell (Good Omens), Scene: Paris 1793 (Good Omens), She/Her Pronouns for Dagon (Good Omens), They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23162662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overused_underrated/pseuds/overused_underrated
Summary: This fic 1000% inspired by @whiteleyfoster and her post-Bastille Crowley. She gave me full permission to be as angsty as I wanted. So...I had fun.Demons don't send rude notes, Angel. How could Aziraphale have known what demons did to those who save angels? It had never happened before. That is, until Paris...CW/TW: body harm/mutilation, branding, burns/scars
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Raphael (Good Omens), Hastur & Ligur (Good Omens), Hastur/Ligur (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 63





	Sulfur and Scars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhiteleyFoster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteleyFoster/gifts).
  * Inspired by ["If my people hear..."](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/568045) by @whiteleyfoster. 



> Huge thank you to @whiteleyfoster for everything she does! She's one of the sweetest creators and I'm honored that I got her blessing to write this. I hope it lives up to her expectations!

Crêpes. Those damn crêpes. 

It all began as it did once before: an angel, a demon, and a forbidden food. Crowley’s vision was dull and blurry, but he could remember those crêpes…

~

“How about if I buy you lunch, hmm? What would you say to some crêpes?” Aziraphale asked, as if he hadn’t almost been beheaded for his snack-capade. Crowley smiled, his eyes glimmering from behind his glasses.

“Sounds good, especially since you’re buying,” he said with a laugh. 

The two left the Bastille (a surprisingly easy thing to do when you’re not dressed like a wealthy aristocrat that’d been blamed for the revolution) and headed to a small cafe. They sat, listening to the townspeople cheer and roar as the guillotine claimed more and more lives. A small demonic miracle and those cheers turned into a sweltering of music. Aziraphale tilted his head in surprise. 

“What? I know you- you can’t enjoy a good meal when there’s a raucous. Now, eat, Angel,” Crowley commanded. Aziraphale smiled and nodded, following the demon’s orders. Crowley relaxed at the sight, so much so, he took off his glasses. He leaned back, letting the music fill his ears and Aziraphale fill his attention. Years had passed and they had much to catch up on.

When they’d finished their lunch, Crowley miracled them back to Aziraphale’s bookshop, despite the angel’s protest. 

“You’re the one whose limited on miracles, Angel. Not me. Can’t have you getting another note from Gabriel.”

“Oh, Crowley. You wily serpent,” Aziraphale chided with an air of laughter to his voice. “How can I thank you?”

Crowley turned, putting his glasses back on, “Don’t pop over to a country in revolution again for a nibble to eat.” The demon smirked and left Aziraphale on his front stoop. The angel smiled as he watched Crowley walk away, presumably back to his flat. Little did he know, Crowley wouldn’t make it there…

Crowley had no way of knowing that either. He continued down the block from Aziraphale’s shop and rounded the corner, heading in the direction of home. The bookshop was exactly 1,879 steps from his flat. Crowley had walked it so many times he knew, no matter the weather, exactly how long it’d take him. 

_Three hundred seventy four. Three hundred seventy five. Three hundred seventy six._ With each step, Crowley was further and further from his angel. From his friend. From the reason of his undoing. There was a small flower shop a few paces from where Crowley would have to turn right. A man in a commander’s hat was leaning down and smelling a bouquet. Crowley thought _Angel likes flowers. Perhaps I should send him some. My roses aren’t quite in bloom yet, but I can change that…_

“Oi, Crowley! Did you get some flowers for your _outstanding job performance_?” a voice yelled.

The demon froze. _Three hundred ninety two._ Crowley stiffened and turned round slowly. There, waiting with a hellish smile, was Hastur. 

“Well, did you?”

“Hastur?” he asked, clearly annoyed. “What are you doing here?”

The demon smiled. “Picking up a rebel rouser,” he said, looking past the demon. “Isn’t that right, Ligur?”

Crowley whipped himself around as a sense of panic settled in. What were they doing here and why were they surrounding him? Crowley didn’t have time to ask. Ligur hit him over the head with a baton, knocking him unconscious; he smiled at the limp demon before crouching down and throwing Crowley over his shoulder.

“Great job, dear. Now, let’s get him to Beelzebub. Otherwise, we’re going to be late for dinner.” 

Ligur laughed, “Anything you say, babe.” 

~ 

Crowley woke to a throbbing pain in his head.

“Ack!” he moaned, his eyes slowly fluttering open. The room was dark and empty, with the exception of a small hellfire slowly burning in a vase of some sort. Crowley tried to move, but was bound to a chair. Feet tied at his ankles and hands tied behind his back. “What in Heaven..?” He pulled at his arms, but they did not budge. The ropes tightened as he struggled to break free, beckoning him still. His head ached, the pain growing stronger with every passing minute. 

Then he heard noises. Voices, more specifically. Crowley couldn’t identify who they belonged to, but they were getting closer. _Two, maybe three of them? But who?_ The demon knew better than to call for help. He was in Hell- that much was obvious. The _why_ wasn’t as clear.

Suddenly, the voices stopped. Silence overtook Crowley’s mind. _Is this a trick?_ He once again tested his restraints, hopelessly failing again. That’s when the door opened. Dim light flooded the room, making Crowley turn his head. Though he had his glasses on, his eyes had adjusted to the darkness and the burst of light burned. He attempted to blink away the blurriness in his vision while trying to focus on the three figures that entered the room. 

“Well, well. It’z been awhile, Crowley…” 

Beelzebub. Their voice was unmistakable. 

“My Lord…” Crowley winced, eyes still adjusting. He could make out the figure beside the Prince. Their life-long right-hand man: Dagon. Her extra rows of teeth glistened in the shine of the hellfire. Crowley lifted his head as his eyes finally adjusted to the room. _One. Two...where’s the third?_

“Do you know why you are here, Crowley?” Beelzebub asked, their voice slow and harsh. 

“Ah...no, my Lord? I was hoping you could tell me, so I can get out of here..” Even when captured, Crowley still had a mouth.

“You’re not going anywhere, _demon_ ,” Dagon hissed. Crowley furrowed his brows. _We’re all demons here...we’re literally in Hell. _

“Crowley...we’ve received word that you’ve helped an angel,” the Prince said. 

“What?! No, I-” he pleaded.

“Saved his life, too,” Dagon added. 

“Listen, it’s not what it-” 

“Zilence!” Beelzebub ordered. “We have a witnezz, Crowley. He zaw you walk out of the Baztille with him.”

Crowley hung his head. Stupid angel. Stupid crêpes. If only Aziraphale had been able to keep his stomach in some below-standard pants, Crowley wouldn’t be here right now. 

“Iz it true?” Crowley knew Beelzebub only asked that question once. If you lie, you get punished. If you tell the truth, you get punished. You got eaten by Dagon depending on the crime. 

Crowley hung his head, defeated. “Yes,” he whispered. 

“Very well...Crowley, you are found guilty of treazon and hereby punished with…” Crowley winced. He had a rocky relationship with God, but he sent one final prayer, _please don’t let me get eaten_! “...branding.”

“What?” Crowley lifted his head to look at Beelzebub. 

“She said ‘branding,’ you twit,” Dagon spat. Crowley rolled his eyes.

“Yes, but what exactly are you going to brand?”

The hellfire in the corner darkened from a yellow flame to one of burnt orange, growing darker with its building intensity. 

“This,” the third voice said. An iron bar formed in the shape of a sulfur cross appeared in front of his face. Crowley followed it to its holder. 

“No…” he pleaded. 

There, wielding his punishment, was none other than Raphael, Crowley’s former mentor.

“Yez,” Beelzebub affirmed. They squatted in front of Crowley so they were eye level and gently pulled his chin, forcing him to look at them. They took off his glasses, threw them to the ground and continued, “You were azking for trouble drezzed like that,” they said, making a show of his outfit with their hands. “You are to be branded with the zign of the fallen. A traitor amongzt rioterz. _You_ zhall have to earn your plaze back in Hell. Iz that underztood?” 

“Beelzebub, please. Not this!” Crowley begged.

The Prince stood and straightened their jacket. “The alternative punizment iz death...you chooze.” 

Crowley’s eyes widened in panic. He had no other choice. Dagon had been smiling since the beginning, but now her extra teeth were showing. 

“Fine. Brand me.” The words came out sharp and harsh. He wanted to cut the tension in the room with bravery, but what little courage he had disappeared when the branding iron was removed from the fire; its face and body glowing burning hot. Fear crept into his eyes. 

“Dagon- hiz wingz,” the Prince ordered. 

“You never said my wings!” Crowley argued, thrashing against Dagon’s touch. It was too late. She pinched his pressure point and his massive, black wings popped out. Crowley looked like a child about to be spanked. His hair loose from its curls and ponytail, cascaded messily down his cheeks and back. Crowley lost all will to fight back as Raphael’s face glowed from the heat of the iron.

“Ready, my protege?” the fallen archangel asked.

“Raffy, please…”

“Sorry, love. I got my orders. Look what happened last time I disobeyed…”

Crowley lowered his head as Raphael moved behind him, strategizing where to begin. “Is it pointless to ask to be gentle?”

“No...but demons aren’t known for their mercy.” 

“I’m not asking a demon. I’m asking you,” Crowley argued. How long had he worked under Raphael? Crafting and creating the night sky. Crowley never thought _he’d_ be the one to carry out such a sentence. He would take a rude notes from Gabriel any day over this.

“Take a deep breath, love. This is gonna hurt,” Raphael said, his voice softer than it had been. Crowley did as told, sucking in a shaky breath. The iron was placed on his wing; it sizzled against his feather. Sulfur seared into the flesh, turning the black keratin a white-ish brown. Crowley yelped out as the pain of the burn lingered and the sulfur began to burn inside him. 

“AKG!!” 

Crowley’s breaths were rough and sharp, clearly a labored effort. Beelzebub and Dagon watched the demon writhe under his restraints. This was his punishment. Angels were the enemy. They are not to be trusted, nor are they meant to be saved. 

“Raphael, you know what to do. Don’t let him go until it’z done. I am clear?” 

“Yes, my Lord,” he said with a nod. 

“Next time, Crowley. There will be no trial. Take thiz az a lezzon,” Beelzebub recommended. They and Dagon readied to leave, smiles on both of their faces, when they turned back and said, “One more thing- don’t even think about getting another accommodation for the next millennia, got it?” 

Crowley was in too much pain to banter. _I’ve never cared for them anyway_ is what he would have said if it weren’t for the agony he was in. Raphael had returned the branding iron to the fire, letting its color return again.

“If you feel like you’re going to pass out, fall into it, love. This is going to take a while. The less you’re awake, the less you’ll feel,” Raphael urged. “Ready?” he said, more than asked. The iron was returned to his wings, melting into the next feather. Crowley screamed out once again, his body shaking more and more with every marking. 

Crowley was conscious for the first thirty percent of his wings. Each burn sent more and more sulfur into his system, making his vision blurred and the pain intense. The smell of burnt flesh overwhelmed the room. Raphael was diligent. He’d stoke the iron in the flame until it was red hot. He’d ask Crowley if he was ready, then he brand the next feather in his wake. Raphael was ordered to brand each and every flight feather on Crowley’s back. He went row by row, starting at the top and making his way towards the bottom. After the first hundred or so, Crowley began to feel woozy. The room started to spin and he couldn’t focus on Raphael’s voice. His ear rang from the echoes of his own screams. Finally, he felt it. The darkness creeping up and pulling him under. Crowley did as he was told- he invited it in. He welcomed it like a long lost friend; he reached out and took it to bed. When he had succumbed, Raphael sent a prayer up on high. A simple _thank you_. The former archangel continued his work, hoping to finish while Crowley was still unconscious. It’d be easier for both of them, that way. Or so he hoped. 

~

Crowley woke in complete agony. He was face down against the filthy, concrete floor, his hands freed and resting by his temples. His whole body ached, as if every fiber of his being had been pulled apart at the seams and haphazardly sewn back together. The sulfur had wreaked havoc on his system. His vision was yellow and blurred, his ears felt like they were stuffed with cotton, his lungs and nostrils burned with every breath. Crowley rarely ate, but if he had the stomach to, everything would have tasted like ash and cinder. He struggled against his own weight, wincing as he pushed himself off the floor so he could sit. 

Raphael had been waiting in the corner, watching over him as he slept, making sure Crowley made it through the night. It had been thousands of years since the last branding, and its victim wasn’t punished _this_ severely. Crowley had been given thirty nine lashes- he dared not tempt a fortieth. As the demon pulled himself together, the former archangel appeared in front of him with a glass of something.

“Drink this,” he commanded.

Crowley grunted, as he extended his hand. His throat was dry, making the words come out coarse, “What is it?”

“Doesn’t matter. Drink it.”

Crowley looked at the murky water, his eyes unable to focus on its color. He took a breath and took a sip. His mouth revolted at the taste, forcing it out of him and his antagonizing throat with coughs. “What in Her name is this crap?” he tried to yell, his voice weak from screaming. 

“Take it like a shot, then. Make it quick. I could be next, ya know.” The tone of Raphael’s voice was not to be argued with; not that Crowley had the energy. He did as his former master told him, gulping down the mystery liquid. 

“Aghh...now will you tell me what that shit was?” 

“Water from Bethesda. It should help with the burning.”

Crowley watched as Raphael took the empty glass and made it disappear. Crowley felt weak. So, terribly weak. 

“You need to rest. It’s gonna take some time to fully heal. Sulfur does nasty things to our bodies..” 

“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. How do you think we all got fucked up in the first place?” Crowley was harsher than he intended. “I’m sorry...this isn’t your fault. You’re just trying to help.” 

Raphael shook his head, “Always so quick to lash out. Almost always out of fear. There’s a reason why She made you a serpent, my little viper.”

Crowley scoffed, “Yeah. Right. Bit of ironic humor. _Thanks, Mom._ ” Crowley tried to stand, but his legs gave out from under him. 

Raphael ran to him, “Woah..take it easy. You’re not going anywhere for awhile, love. Rest.”

The demon grunted, annoyed at his inability to function, but tried to relax at Raphael’s request. “Can I at least put my wings away? It’s so hard to keep them up…”

The archangel gave him a gentle squeeze. “Soon, love. They have to stop shaking, first.” 

Crowley closed his eyes, wanting to fall back into the darkness that consumed him before. _Wouldn’t it have been kinder to cut them off?_

Demons aren't known for their mercy.

~

Crowley spent the next two weeks in Raphael’s care, his body trying to detoxify itself from the sulfur. The burns bubbled and blistered over; when they popped, they oozed sulfur back into his wounds, burning him a second time. Crowley’s body was in withdrawal. He had a fever, the shakes, he was vomiting and had diarrhea. The world became a blur, caught between the disorientation and his vision going in and out of focus. By day three, he regretted not letting Dagon eat him.

When the worst of the symptoms were over, Raphael returned Crowley to his flat. His bedroom was filled with bandages, gauze, tinctures and tonics. Anything and everything he might need when he woke. Raphael carefully carted the weary demon to his bed, gently setting the covers over him. Crowley was already asleep, but he mumbled something that sounded like _thank you_. 

Raphael placed a sweet kiss on his forehead, whispering, “Sleep, my love. May you one day forgive me.” The long-since archangel performed a final miracle. A last goodbye, almost. With a _snap_ , Crowley’s clothes, including his buttoned coat were hung over a barely-used chair. Though they were once riddled with his sweat and blood, now they lay clean and ready to be worn when he woke. In their stead, Crowley donned a soft, white sleeping set and his hair was freely nestled around him, like a crown of fire. Raphael watched him rest for a moment and then disappeared, returning, once again, to the bowels of Hell. 

Crowley slept for six years. As much as he would have liked to, his body physically couldn’t handle being awake on the surface. In Hell, Crowley could have used the demonic energy to keep himself conscious. But that meant being trapped with the people that had just mutilated him. Raphael knew better. Crowley was one of the few demons that enjoyed sleep, so getting him to Earth as soon as possible was his goal. It pained him to leave his forgotten apprentice, but Raphael knew it was too dangerous for him to stay. Crowley needed rest, not risk. 

When Crowley did wake, he back ached, like a runner the morning after a marathon. He was sore, but alive. The demon stood, slowly rising from his bed, and went to the bathroom. He was greeted by a horrid reflection: his hair was unkempt and overgrown, he had dark circles under both his eyes, and he had the _worst_ beard imaginable. With a _snap_ , his hair was cut short, resting in a neat, combed back style. His beard was gone, shaved down to a respectable and well manicured mustache. The dark circles of ash were washed away (the last remnants of sulfur had pooled in his tears). He looked like a new man. Except for…

Crowley bit his lip hard, closed his eyes, and unfurled his wings. He tried not to shake as he mustered the courage to look at himself. When he did, his heart sank. Each feather was branded with that horrid symbol. A reminder of his failure. The brown tarnish had faded over the years, leaving just the white sulfur cross etched into every feather on his back. Crowley shook his head angrily. He felt wronged, cheated. Violated. All of this because he saved an angel? _Why?_ He couldn’t understand it. Angels were beings of love, yes. And demons were supposed to be the opposite of angels, but angels did not love demons, so why was it wrong for demons to love angels? Well, not _love_ love, but to care for? Why did things have to be right and wrong? Black and white? The world is full of shades of grey, or musty brown bits. The world was complex, just as humans are.

Crowley ran a hand over his tainted wings. He had loved them, once. He was one of the few demons who chose wings as dark as night. He wanted to be free. To soar above the clouds in the sun. Crows were misunderstood. They looked mean and evil, but in reality, they are gentle creatures. They care for those around them. And they’re smart. Crows remember the faces of those who wronged them. Crowley wasn’t going to forget _that_ any time soon. 

Some of his feathers had been damaged from the branding iron. They shrank in their sockets, growing thin and frail. As he ran his fingers over them, he could feel fistfuls that wanted to come loose. Crowley shook his head and put his wings away. In time, they’d molt away and become new again. He didn’t have the patience. 

Crowley left his reflection and went to his desk, scribbling down a note: _Meet me at the park? By the ducks. -C_ . Crowley blew it out the window, knowing that in moments it’d be waiting for a specific angel on his desk. In the meantime, Crowley had to get dressed. He saw his coat on the chair and felt a shiver trail down his spine. He felt it go through his earthly corporation and his snake form. _I don’t have time for this_ , he thought. The demon dressed himself in what he hoped was a time-appropriate suit and made his way to the park. 

When he arrived, Aziraphale was there waiting for him. 

“Angel. How’ve you been?” he asked, genuinely happy to see him. Aziraphale stood and hugged the demon.

“Crowley. It’s been so long since I heard from you. Is everything alright?” 

Crowley winced as Aziraphale’s hands touched his back. “‘M fine, Angel. Nothing I couldn’t handle,” he said, sitting on their shared bench. 

“My dear, what does that mean?” Aziraphale pressed, his voice filled with concern.

Crowley sighed, lowering his head and shaking it. “I got reprimanded. My lot doesn’t send rude notes.” He didn’t like to lie, especially not to his angel. 

Aziraphale turned so he faced Crowley with his whole body. “Are you ok? What happened?” he pleaded, 

Crowley tried to play it off with a laugh, “I’m fine, Angel. Really. I just...don’t feel like talking about it. So, fill me in. What have I missed?” 

Aziraphale wanted to argue, but he thought better of it. “If that ever changes, Crowley. You know where to find me,” he said, gingerly putting his hand on the demon’s. “Now, let’s see. Uh..Napoleon has been busy across Europe, Washington stepped down as President, there was a massive earthquake in Ecuador, a bank got robbed in the US, oh! And the ducks have had eight ducklings for the last four years!” 

Crowley smiled at the normally he’d missed. “And what are their names?” 

“Right! Let’s see...the first year I did authors. So, we had Dante, Plato, Aristotle, Praxilla, Homer, Sappho, Shakespeare, and Nossis. Then after that, we had colors! There was Violet, Magenta, Cobalt…” 

That’s how the remained: sitting on the park bench discussing all that Crowley had missed while he was recovering. Hours passed and the sun began to set. Crowley looked at his watch, not realizing how long they’d been there.

“Thank you for filling me in, Angel. I know it’s almost dinner time for you, and unfortunately, I won’t be able to join you. I have some paperwork I need to catch up on.”

Aziraphale smiled, “Oh, I’m sorry, my dear. Of course! Not a problem at all.”

Crowley stood, getting himself ready. “How’s about next time I take you out? Dinner on me, hmm?”

“That sounds lovely. You know, my bookshop is opening in a few months. Perhaps we could enjoy an evening in?” 

Crowley chuckled. “That sounds wonderful. I promise not to cut our night short. Thank you, again, Angel. I’ll see you around,” he said with a smile. 

Aziraphale watched his demon companion duck his head down and walk away, blending into the crowd of men in coats. He tossed a few remaining bits of corn to the ducks in the pond before preparing to head back to his shop. As he stood, something caught his eye. Something dark, tucked just behind one of the planks of the bench. 

Aziraphale carefully pulled out a black feather that had been wedged where Crowley was sitting. He held it in his hands, his eyes filling with panic when he turned it around. A white sulfur cross was burned into its brilliant body. _My lot doesn’t send rude notes, Angel…_ Aziraphale clutched the feather close to his chest, eyes brimming over with tears as he searched for the man who’d vanished into the crowd. 

His voice strained with fear, as he whispered, “Crowley…what have they done to you?”


End file.
